The Prince & the Acrobat
by Fantasy Dreamers
Summary: Non-Magic AU. When Draco Malfoy goes to the circus, he never thought he would see something as extraordinary as Harry Potter. As a tentative friendship & romance bloom, will Harry's dark secret ruin their lives?
1. Chapter 1

The Prince & the Acrobat

Ch. 1

Red and gold light shined through the threshes of the thread bare fabric that made the tent, blinding Harry's eyes with reams of light as he soared thought the sky. His lungs were beating in his chest like a drum roll preparing him for launch. In the moment of pain his hand nearly grasped at his chest, but he wouldn't allow it. It would be a moment of true weakness to falter within such a breathtaking act. It would be worth the pain because in one more swing he'd be able to feel it. The immeasurably inexhaustible feeling of flying. Soaring through the air as if wings could carry you. This feeling was worth all the rejection, all the suffering, and aching. For Harry, and Harry alone knew what it was like up here in the sky, where only birds had ever lived.

Harry launched himself to the next swing and felt the air rush around him. He was born for this. In one final swoop he stood on the edge of the swing, feeling complete. Feeling content.

The audience roared around him. Or rather his parents did.

"Bravo! Bravo!" James clapped his strong hands together and wrapped an arm around his wife. "You're almost ready for the stage!"

His wife next to him glowered slightly.

"Oh, James! Give the boy a break."

"He's been on stage since he was five. My son was born stage ready!" His father brandished proudly.

"That time Sirius put him on his motorcycle and started doing air flips does not count!" James frowned as his wife slipped away toward Harry.

"Come here, Harry. Get down so I can attend to your costume. I've got to get down the final touches for tonight." She smiled as her son reluctantly jumped off of the swing to greet his mother.

James ruffled his son's already windblown hair and laughed. "Your mother just doesn't want to admit that you were having the time of your life out there, right Harry?"

Harry blushed, not wanting to answer because he knew that both yes and no would ignite at least one parent.

They walked out of the quiet tent and into the cluttered chaos of the outside world. Circus performers rushed busily past from tent to tent, carrying all manners of equipment and chatting loudly as they went. Shuttling from arm to arm were clubs and balls, lassos and Chinese poles, bullwhips and pogo sticks all headed toward their perspective tents. The Circus people traveled in all manner of ways as well. They ran in their size 18 shoes and they scuttled around on unicycles and stilts, some carrying precarious stacks of plates and long strings of throwing knives high above the heads of the walking circus folk bellow. He saw Hagrid bustling five squawking ostriches into a pen across the walkway, and five doors over Tonks was rolling a purple motorcycle into its holding cell for tonight's show. The pink flames blazed on the side, and for a second in the distance they looked real. Aerial silk passed in long, flowing reams in front of Harry and he sighed, content.

The way to the costume tent was a hustling blur. There was so much traffic on the way there that it was an upwards battle to reach the little bronze and blue tent at the end of the block. Harry's parents ushered him in, a little out of breath. Inside, Molly Weasley rushed from corner to corner, eyes wild as she arranged this bow or that flaw in the fabric so that everything was in perfect working order for the show tonight.

Slouching behind in one of the shadowy corners was her youngest son, Ron, trying his best to blend in with the fabric behind him.

"You're not ready to be on stage by yourself yet, and besides that, that silly act is far too dangerous for you to be doing and you know it. How that Hermione girl had ever convinced me it was alright for you to start doing that in the first place is beyond me!" she frowned through a mouthful of pins. She stuck a pin deftly into a clown's costume, and then turned around.

"Oh, Harry dear! You must be here for your costume. Pull up a stool darling and we'll get you right and fixed up." She smiled at Harry's parents and made a gentle, if not a little forced gesture for them to head back out the door. "I'll get him right well and in order." she waved them away. "Right. Harry, lift your arms up. And Ron dear, go and fetch the costume I've worked on for him.

Ron slipped out, and a minute later pulled out a sleek black jumper. He placed it on the fabric table in front of his Mum, who proceeded to stick millions of little pins all over it.

Pulling out a long measuring tape from the folds of her skirt she held it against Harry's left arm.

"My word Harry, your left arm keeps getting shorter!" she clucked her tongue and held tape against the other. "And the right is five inches longer than before!" she wagged her finger at him.

"Ron, you'll have to hem one sleeve while I let out the other. My word, this boy!" she poked his stomach. "Skinnier by the day! Don't your parents feed you?"

'Yes, though not as much as you'd like.' Harry thought peering out at the woman and her son. Mrs. Weasley had always balked at what Harry's Mum made. Pots of macaroni and chicken salad sandwiches were her specialties. The family had eaten pizza for dinner the past three days. Last week it was Chinese takeout. The week before it was squashy packages of fish and chips. She was a busy woman, what with managing all of their acts, the props, the lights, and the outrageous sets they sometimes required. She even helped out at the main office sometimes, because they were always so short staffed in accounting things. Harry didn't expect anything fancy like homemade fudgy brownies or roast chicken. He knew she was a very busy woman, and that James couldn't produce anything edible, but they loved him. That was enough for Harry.

Apparently it wasn't enough for Molly Weasley though. Not that he was going to deny some of her famous homemade fudge or ham and chicken pie if she handed it to him.

As she got to work on the faulty sleeves, she pulled out a large pile of treacle tarts from under the cupboard and placed them in front of Harry with a very pointed look that said: "Eat."

He nervously snatched a tart and nibbled on it carefully. He didn't want to risk eating too much and then barfing all over the audience tonight. Disaster should be avoided, when possible.

Right after that, Ron turned to Molly. "I've been practicing, Mum, and I'm really good. Probably even better than Granddad was." he smiled, twirling his unlit poi stick. "I could show you if you want?" he pulled out a box of matches. His Granddad's match box. He'd shown them to Harry many times during late nights of practice.

"You're going to do the act with your Father and brothers like you always do and not that silly fire act, and that's final." she announced through a mouthful of pins. "Now get to work on that sleeve, Ronald." she gave him a very pointed look, and when Mrs. Weasley gave you one of those you listened to her.

Which Ron did, very begrudgingly. He put down the matchbox and the poi stick and took up a needle, very frustratingly hemming the sleeve to Harry's leotard. A leotard he was very grateful not to be wearing at the moment. He thought as he looked in horror at the poor sleeve that Ron demolished with his violent needlework.

Normally Ron was very good at needlework. He'd helped to make his father's good vest when he was only eight years old. He bashfully admitted that he enjoyed it even, if his mother hadn't have forced the talent on him at young age when she had needed extra hands in the costuming tent. Now he was taking all of his frustrations out on Harry's poor sleeve.

Once the sleeves were mended and Harry's stomach was coated with sticky sweet treacle, Mrs. Weasley had him slip on the sleek costume in the back of the tent and stand in front of the mirror for her.

"Now Harry," Mrs. Weasley said as she picked specks of dust off his shoulders and back. "This costume is very special. I worked for weeks on it to give it just the right spark for your performance." She rubbed his back lovingly as they stood in view of the Mirror together.

Harry didn't see what was so special about it. Why Mrs. Weasley had insisted on making this new jumper for him, although his old one was perfectly good. That isn't to say that this one wasn't nice. It was a lovely bright black that made his old suit look pale gray in comparison. It was sleek and silky and when Harry moved his arms he felt as if it moved along with him. But unfortunately it was also tight. Really, really tight. Harry blushed when he saw how it outlined every detail of his torso, right down to the indent of his navel and the slight jutting of where his muscles were. His blush became even deeper when he saw past his belly button to his legs. The jumpsuit highlighted every single feature, the good and bad. He might as well have been naked.

"Harry, dear, you look splendid!" Mrs. Weasley smiled at her handymen ship, seemingly unaware of Harry's complete embarrassment.

Just then the bell to the tent entrance rang and one of Mrs. Weasley's ginger brood ran in. Took one look at Harry, and froze. On the spot.

Harry had tried to run for cover before he caught the person's eye, but he found himself unable to do anything except stare in the mirror in shock.

'Ginny!' Harry winced, glancing himself once over again in the mirror. He really did not want his best friend's younger sister to see him in this umm...compromised position. Though he wasn't facing her he could see her eyes widen in the mirror, and then the bloody blush creep up her face as she took it in, unable to move.

Too late.

Harry frowned. It wasn't like he minded being stared at. He'd been performing since he was three, so by now he was over being gawked at, but still. His best friend's sister...who'd had an obvious crush on him since she was ten! It wasn't that Harry minded exactly. He had always known Ginny had had a crush on him. A very large, doodle hearts in your notebook, "Mrs. Ginny Potter" Crush. He'd just always chosen to ignore it, and it had always worked. But it would be much more difficult now.

"Ginny dear, go and fetch some black thread from the back there. I am all out of black thread." Mrs. Weasley waved her away, reaching around herself to check if was indeed out of thread.

She turned to Harry.

"Now Harry, dear. I've worked this costume right up. It's taken me quite a while, but it's a very special costume. I think you might be quite a bit surprised under the lights tonight." she smiled warmly at him. "Why don't you change out and I'll get you a nice sack of those treacle tarts for you to take with you. Definitely want to have a nice full stomach before your lovely performance tonight." She patted his back.

"Oh dear. You've got tart all over your face. You had better wash up as well." she licked her finger and started to dab a spot on his forehead. Harry blushed deeply.

"Mum!" Ron whined, blushing also.

"Alright, fine then. But you better wash yourself up all the same." she left the room to bag up some of the treacle tarts and allow him room to change, which Harry did. Gratefully.

"Are you still trying to convince your mum?" Harry asked, slipping on his black t shirt.

"Yeah, I really thought I had her this time, but so far she's just said no." he smiled, looking down at his match box. "Maybe I should just do it anyway."

"Are you kidding? No one can hide from your Mum." Harry chuckled, folding his costume up.

"Maybe he could." They heard the tent bell ring and then turned to see the third member to their little trio behind them.

"Where you listening to us outside of the tent? 'Moine you're a devil!" Ron exclaimed.

"Well I couldn't very well come in while Harry changed, now could I, Ron?" she turned very pointedly toward him. "Your mother is very clever, but she isn't impenetrable. If we hide our act well enough until we go on she will never realize that it's happening until during, and then it would be too late to stop us. If we show her how good we are at handling it she might allow us to do it again. Mrs. Weasley isn't made of stone, she can still be swayed."

"Yeah, 'Moine but we're gonna face an earful when we're off." he frowned.

"But you cannot deny that it would be worth every second!" she rebuffed, turning to Harry.

"All we need to do is tell Dumbledore to leave us a little time before your act. But only right before the show starts. I'll handle all the preparations, but we need to be careful. We can't risk anyone catching wind of this before the show starts. It would be too dangerous."

They clamped their mouths shut as Molly entered the room, carting a large bag of treats behind her.


	2. Chapter 2

_Hi! Here is chapter 2. We are going to try and update about every Sunday or so (if the writer is doing her job)._

**If the idea person wasn't so annoying I'd probably write faster. :P Jerk. Anyways, enjoy the chapter! :D**

_And hopefully we'll update soon, once the writer gets her act together. Please review and fav!_

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><p>Tom Riddle looked around the fairgrounds, surrounded by the filthy circus folk. They walked around on their hands, rolled along on balls, their faces painted with red and green, their hair was stick out in unruly fashions, and they stared at him like <em>he<em> was the freak.

The miscreants.

He had no idea why Mr. Krysa had wanted to meet here. The place was unruly with disorder and filth. Everyone was barefoot, there was horse feces smothering the floor, rats weaving in between people's feet, dirt smeared faces, maggots were swarming an apple core in the over filled trash behind him. And for God's sake, would it kill these people to bathe once and a while? It smelled as if they'd been rolling in their own faucal matter for months!

He wouldn't be surprised if they had. He pinched his nose in disdain.

He had been given the ticket to this Carnivale de Excreta of sorts by one Mr. Petroff Krysa. A very rich Russian opium dealer who had promised him a hefty feed on the movements of the Russian Mafia. He didn't care for the atmosphere, but the information was impertinent to his current wares. From what he could tell the man was dipping his hands a little too closely into the supply, so with any small reach he could reveal anything. Including the location of the Mafia's largest warehouse.

He tapped his heel.

'Time is money. Time is money. Time is money." he thought to the beat. And Petroff was wasting _his_ money.

He sighed and decided better to take a walk around the fairgrounds than hang in between this pile of rot and a trash can. As he cruised along he made careful notice of the tents. Mr. Petroff cited he passed his time in the food tent. Gold and Black.

Riddle passed by many tents looking for the one Krysa had described to him over the telephone, but none fit. Maybe he wasn't in the right section.

He saw a goldfish game being set up, a couple of clowns practicing cheap card tricks, even an older man boasting that you could never guess how long his beard was.

Walking past the blur of spinning people he spied a purple and black tent across his path. A woman with vivid green eyes and hair frizzed up to the sky held a clouded glass ball close to her and flapped her bracelet clad arms in excitement when she thought she saw a little dog frolicking in the distance.

She giggled. "The spirits are with me today." she smiled complacently, until her spectacle covered eyes wandered up to him.

"Ah! Young man! Handsome young man who wishes his fortune to be told. Among the stars, among the seas, among the Gods of Greek origin. You are wise to come to me Young man. I see great fortune in your future. Most wonderful things come from the great God Devla." she smiled eagerly.

He waved her by.

"Ah, but young man! Such strong arms you have. Wouldn't you like your tea leaves read? Your palm? I can tell you your life's destiny. Your most wonderful future! Won't you please have your hand taken, your fortune read? Please?" she whimpered, making a grabbing gesture.

"No, I'm not interested, old woman." he shook her off and headed toward the next booth for cover. The woman had given up her pursuit when she could no longer see him. It took him a few moments to calm down. Moving quickly had never been his style. He caught his breath after a few minutes of hard breathing and then after looked at his surroundings.

He smiled. Gold and Black, and the smell of hot food simmering in large vats. Behind the counter stood a portly look young man who stirred the mystery food with great tenacity.

"Mr. Petroff Krysa, I assume?" he smirked. Riddle slid over the counter, careful not to allow his pressed suit to get smeared or creased by the molding cork wood. "Marvolo." he stated. He'd been careful to announce himself under a different identity. Mr. Krysa thought he was meeting one of Riddle's own associates, not Riddle himself.

The man addressed fumbled with the spoon as it flung to the floor, spilling brown goop all over Riddle's fresh pressed Armani tie.

Miscreant.

"Oh, Marvolo, Sir!" His shaking hands attempted a feeble salute to the man. "May I interest you in some French onion soup? Smothered chicken? A roll with a little hot gravy?

He sighed, pensively dabbing at his tie with a silk handkerchief. It was going to stain, good thing he didn't care for this shade of green.

"No, I'd rather not consume anything at the moment." at least not from this establishment. His eyes grazed over the overflowing pots, the grime covered stove, the brown smudges on the sides of the glassware, and the rotting vegetables on the side table.

The smell was simply putrefying enough.

"Well then, we should get down to business. I'm Petroff Krysa. I assume you've heard of me as I have of you, Mr. Marvolo." Actually, he had never heard of Mr. Petroff Krysa prior to this contacting. Luckily he had it on good standing that the man thought his head was worth a lot less as Mr. Marvolo than it was as Tom Riddle.

He took his hand begrudgingly, noting with a grimace the grease it secreted.

"You have information pertaining to the Russian Mafia, Stakan. As I said in our previous conversations, I would greatly appreciate this information." he smiled toward Petroff, who leaned his grease stained back on the counter.

The man was younger than he thought he'd be, and oddly mouse like around the eyes. His face twitched when he realized Tom was staring at him.

"Right, right. So this mafia. They've got a warehouse in New York, right in Italy's territory. And in it-" he hiccupped. "Is the most amazing thing. It's got this-this umm...Elephant sized ruby that they revere as a god. I swear to you. Not even lying. It's that amazing." Petroff's eager face faltered as soon as he looked up at Marvolo's irritated expression. "But-" he continued, turning back to what looked to be a pot of-Riddle cringed- sloppy joe. "I've been working on a computer program that should shut their security off like a rocket. It's in the early stages, but I could show you, if you'd like?" Petroff blushed, looking down at his meaty hands as he stirred the godforsaken mixture with a spoon.

Tom Riddle could have shot him. He was sorely tempted to, and he really was that angry. But it just wouldn't do to ruin the rest of his suit on the same day. He had to think practically here. So instead of ending all of his troubles then and there with a quick trigger pull he masked his anger with pale proximity and turned to smile at the simpleton.

"You seem to have called me here on false pretenses, Mr. Petroff. I had been under the impression that you were Mr. Petroff Predavat Krysa, and so also the Russian Opium lord of that exact naming. I had been following the guise that you were in hiding at this establishment, and that you, the assumed Lord of Opium, Mr. Petroff Predavat Krysa, was reaching out to my associate with information. Information that my associates and I could use at our own personal leisure. Information that is of very little use to an Opium lord, but of fine use to one such as myself. Should I be in the understanding that you are indeed not who you say you are, Mr. Petroff? Because that would make me very unhappy." he leered. "And trust you in me that I am not quite the sort of person you would _ever_ like to see unhappy." his eyes said it all, and under Riddle's stone gaze Mr. Petroff seem to sink like a rat caught in the act.

"But, Sir!" his voice nearly gave way to a whimper. "I've got an excellent program. I could make more programs for you if you like. I'm an amazing programmer. Please, Sir I'd do anything to work under your associates." he begged. The imbecile. An idle computer programmer from Newark, yet he dared to come in contact with the likes of himself. Riddle had half a mind to slap him. To come all the way out here, to a place such as this. Such a filthy, filthy place.

He took in a couple deep breaths, trying ignore the feeling of smog that rushed through his otherwise clean lungs.

'A man in every place,' he reminded himself. 'There's a place for every man.'

He tailored this phrase particularly to remind himself that men such as Petroff could still be of use to him, somehow. A follower is a follower. Simpleton or not.

"Mr. Petroff, my associates never deal with such things as common as petty thievery, I assure you of that." his eyes fell into cold, hard balls in Petroff's forehead, causing the man to shrink even more. "You have made a very strong enemy today, Mr. Petroff. But you are very lucky that I tend to make friends with my enemies." he left a business card behind him. "I will contact you in the future. I suggest you keep your telephone closer to your ear than you do your skin to your heart, Mr. Petroff." and then Riddle left the tent.

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><p>It was half past six and the car was late. He called Dobby several times, but all of the power in the world couldn't stop traffic. According to Dobby it could be hours before he arrived. Hours in this dank hole. Options were to find a bench hidden in an alcove of the grounds, or watch the show, tickets already provided by the simpleton who called him here.<p>

Well, better to watch the show than sit in squalor. Besides, Tom Riddle never passes a business opportunity.


End file.
